Cross of Fire (35 page)

'Just watch your driving.' he warned. 'And switch off
those damned lights. They're blinding my colleague...'

Newman manoeuvred the car swiftly once Marler
slipped into the passenger seat. He moved off before the
truck driver could turn on his lights again. Marler lit a king-
size.

'That was smart,' Newman commented. 'Getting him to switch off his lights. That way he didn't get our registration number.'

'Which was the idea, chum. Care to guess what he is transporting at this hour?'

'Don't like guessing games.'

'You'd lose, anyway. Loads of sacks crammed with Bala
clava helmets. Just that. From the
middle to the cab they were piled up to the ceiling. I estimated there were hun
dreds, could be thousands. Told me a cock-and-bull story -
they're for a Christmas bash. And he lied about his desti
nation. Said it was Lowestoft. Maybe we should find out
just where he is going?'

Tor once I agree with you. The next turn-off is the
crossroads at Snape. A tenner to a fiver he takes the right
turning along the A1094 to Aldeburgh.'

'No takers.' Marler looked thoughtful. 'Yes, the number of Balaclavas aboard that truck must run into thousands.
Some fancy dress party ...'

Well ahead of the truck, at the lonely crossroads Newman
swung the Volvo on to a wide area of grass, drew in by a hedge, switched off lights, engine, waited. Marler put out
his cigarette, lowered his window a fraction so he could
hear.

In the silence of the dark which seemed to press down
on them they heard the truck coming a long way off. Marler
checked his watch by the illuminated hands. It was 1.30 a.m.
A funny time to be making a delivery.

They sat very still as the truck came closer. Reaching the crossroads, headlights dipped, the driver didn't hesitate. He turned on to the A1094. But he had turned
left - away
from Aldeburgh. Newman switched on lights, started the engine, followed, his lights dimmed.

'I should have agreed that bet.' Marler said.

Once through the small village of Snape, Newman drove with only his sidelights on. The red lights of the truck were
sufficient guide, and their short wait at the crossroads had brought back his night vision. The truck turned right on the A12, increased speed, proceeding north. There was no other traffic at all on the road.

'Looks as though maybe Drunky was telling the truth when he said Lowestoft.' Marler observed. 'But I'd have sworn he was lying.'

'And with things like that you have been known to be
right.'

'Thanks for the unreserved vote of confidence.'

Marler found the steady drive along the main highway hypnotic as Newman drove on and on. The occasional car
was appearing now, two blazing eyes rushing towards
them. Newman felt it safer to switch on his own headlights dimmed. The cars rushing past them had no such consideration. Several times Newman reacted.

'Dip your headlights, you swine .. .'

The truck was moving at high speed, eating up the miles.
Newman pressed his own foot down to keep up, but maintained a decent distance between the two vehicles so the
truck driver wouldn't suspect he was being followed. Marler
checked his watch again.

'Lord knows what time we'll arrive at the Brudenell - or
whether they'll let us in at this hour.'

'I coaxed a front door key out of the girl when I registered
before we set out for the
factory.'

'I'm surprised
you
were able to charm her to that extent.'

'We'd stayed there recently. She now regards us as
trustworthy types.'

'Oh, very trustworthy. Breaking into private property.'

He was about to light another king-size when he paused.
The truck was slowing down. Still a good distance from
Lowestoft. And in the middle of nowhere. Newman also
reduced speed. The truck's right-hand indicator light was flashing, warning it -was about to turn off the highway.
Newman slowed even more, glanced in his rear-view mir
ror. Nothing behind him for miles. The truck turned down
a side road leading east towards the sea.

Newman pulled in to the side. His face was like stone as
he leaned forward, staring at the signpost pointing to the
truck's destination. Just one word.

Dunwich.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The following day at the Brudenell, Paula was restless and impatient. She felt she had to keep her word to Tweed - not
to stray until she had contacted Newman, Easier said than
done. The receptionist had told her they were staying at the
hotel, had discreetly given her their room numbers. After
all, she had seen them together during their recent visit:
Newman and Marler.

Paula took the elevator to both rooms. And met the same
message hanging from the door handles of both rooms.
Please Do Not Disturb.
Frustrated, she went to her own room,
put on her suede coat and a cashmere scarf. It was a raw,
bitter day outside but she felt trapped indoors. The first
person she encountered when she stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor was Lieutenant Berthier, masquer
ading as James Sanders, dark-haired and complete with
tinted glasses. He wore a windcheater, heavy grey slacks,
and a polo-necked sweater. His feet were shod in trainers.

'Hello, Mr Sanders.' she said quickly. 'Making any contacts you might sell marine parts to?'

'The weather doesn't help - most people are keeping their heads down. You're going for a walk? I'm after a bite of fresh air myself. Along the promenade?'

That will be bracing.'

She stepped out of the door he opened for her leading
direct to the promenade. Berthier might let something slip
and it was something to do until Newman decided to rise
and shine. She almost made a reference to his use of the
word 'bite', certain he had meant 'bit', but the first word
was perfect for the weather. She decided not to say anything
- he might
think she'd spotted an error in his English.

'Later I could drive you somewhere nice for lunch.' he
suggested.

'That's generous of you, but I have to stay near the hotel for a phone message.' she lied easily.

Berthier walked on the seaward side, protecting her from
the storm which was blowing up. Mountainous waves
heaved their bulk against the front, splashing spume on to
the promenade. Paula noticed several of the ancient terrace houses had shutters closed over their basement windows. In
some cases the windows had been blocked up. When the North Sea really raged it must inundate the promenade,
lapping against the basements. She walked leaning into the force of the wind. Berthier took her arm.

'Don't want you blown over.'

'Why don't you try to contact Lord Dane Dawlish?'

She felt his grip on her arm tighten for a second when
she'd asked the question. He relaxed his hold quickly.

'Why should I get in touch with him?' he asked.

'I'd have thought your research would have turned up
the fact he's a likely prospect. He has a huge catamaran
called the
Steel Vulture.
He might be a good customer.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Do more than that.' she pressed him. 'He lives not far
away. At Iken.'

'Where's that?'

All the wrong answers, she thought. In his role as a
salesman she felt sure his research would be meticulous.
He'd hardly have missed Dawlish.

'Up the River Aide on the way to Snape Maltings. You
know the strange course the river follows.' she prodded.

'I'm a Yellow Pages man myself. Let's call in at the Cross
Keys for some coffee. It's the nicest pub in the town.'

'Good idea.'

She answered automatically. Once she had liked Aldeburgh as a comfortable refuge away from the world. Now her main image of the place was a night of horror when masked men with rifles, hardly human, had pursued Karin and herself like a pack of wolves hunting their prey. She recalled what they - one of them - had done to Karin.
Stop it!
she told herself.

'We're nearly there.'

Berthier checked his watch as he led her away from the
promenade into the garden leading to the rear entrance.

Paula was relieved to get away from the front. She had
been lucky: no ruinous salt water had splashed on her
precious suede coat.

'This table suit you?' Berthier suggested. 'It's near the
serving counter. Just coffee?'

He ushered her to a chair, went over to the counter to
give his order. It was less cold in the Cross Keys but Paula kept her coat on. She had just noticed who was sitting at the
large table close to hers.

Five tough-looking men wearing pea-jackets. Half-facing
her was the wide-shouldered heavy-set Brand. She looked
away, saw the waitress behind the counter staring at him.
Brand turned, stared back at the girl. She took a deep breath,
spoke sharply.

'I thought I told you not to come back.'

'It's all right, he's with me...'

Lord Dawlish appeared round a corner from the room at the front. Hatless, he was clad in a British warm, the collar
turned up. He joined the five men, sitting in a chair which
Paula guessed had been kept for him. She was beginning to worry: the atmosphere had become menacing.

No one was speaking at the table occupied by Dawlish. The seamen-types were watching her. She tilted her chin
defiantly, looked up at the low oak-beamed ceiling, which
seemed to press down on her. Dark oak. The tables,
uncovered, were made of the
same dark oak. She remem
bered the pub on a previous trip as a comfortable welcoming
place. It was the occupants who had changed the atmosphere.

Berthier returned to her table, the waitress served the coffee. She looked at Berthier who sat facing her. He was
gazing straight at her, saying nothing, eyes invisible behind
the tinted lenses. He wasn't helping at all; she thought as
she sipped the excellent coffee. He just kept looking at her, damn him.

Then she remembered he'd checked his watch before
they'd entered the place. Was this a prearranged rendez
vous? Before going up to her room at the Brudenell to fetch
her coat she'd called out to the receptionist that she was
going for a walk. Berthier could have been within earshot.

'Not the weather for a trip on the Cat,' Dawlish called out to her. 'You haven't forgotten my offer, my dear?'

One of the men at his table sniggered. She placed her cup
carefully back in the saucer, her expression frozen. She
stared at Dawlish.